A bit of a dry category, admittedly, so I
tried my best to glitz it up just a teensy.
Go look, and then add your own list.

While you're there, I suggest you take a
look at a piece Tom Spurgeon wrote called
"What Happened On September 28". It's a personal recollection, expertly
written, of some horrific events that
touched
Tom's life two decades earlier. Once
you
read it, you're not likely to forget
it.

On a happier note, there's a long, NEW YORK
magazine cover profile of Conan O'Brien on line. If you're a big fan of the late
night host--as I am--you might want to take
a gander. Nothing particularly revelatory--save
for a potentially brewing rivalry with John
Stewart--but interesting nonetheless.

See you in October!!

September 29th, 2005

We've received a mildly quizzical reaction
from...certain quarters, regarding our recent
apparent preoccupation with fifties' era
male cartoon characters coyly bathing (see
September 24th and September 26th entries).
Not that we feel the need to justify our
decision to run said illos--at Hembeck.com,
we're secure in our sexuality (and isn't
THAT a sentence you folks never expected--nor
even WANTED--to read here?...), but we ARE
always interested in providing a balance.

So, with that in mind, allow me to share
with you the first three examples of what
hopefully was an ongoing series of gags,
all found in the first volume of Fantagraphics
delightful new publishing venture, HANK KETCHAM'S
COMPLETE DENNIS THE MENACE, 1951-1952.

Behold--the hottest mom to debut in the funny
pages during the waning days of the Truman
Administration, Alice Mitchell, trying time
and again to take a nice, relaxing bath.
TRYING...

There were a smattering of nude pictures
of Dennis in the book as well, but THAT we're
just plain not gonna get into, okay?...

Regarding Don Adams, Steve Ditko, and the
GET SMART comic book (which we were talking
about yesterday), Mark Evanier has a terrific
entry about the Dell comics adaptation here, and maybe an even more amazing follow-up
concerning Mr. Ditko's specific contribution
here. Now, I fully realize that if you read my
blog, odds are extremely high that you also
read Mr. E's, too (would that the opposite
were true as well. sigh...), so I provide
these links mostly--and selfishly--for my
own future reference. Truly, THIS is the
sort of minutia I thrive on! Thanks Mark!

And finally, leave it to the mysterious cabal
collectively known as SUPERFRANKENSTEIN to
add their typically twisted take to the ongoing
gagfest inspired by the passing of the man
once known as Maxwell Smart, offering another,
as yet unmined, variation.

Last week, over in my little corner of the IGN Comics website, we learned how a Gold Key comics adaptation
of a movie featuring the thespianic talents
of a young Don Rickles actually caused me
some uncomfortable late night moments. Well,
with the 29th episode of The Fred Hembeck Show, I'm almost embarrassed to admit we manage
to top that, as I relate the tale of the
TV show that once haunted nine year old Little
Freddy.

WHICH show?

Ah, but that would be telling, wouldn't it?
Let me merely leave you with two words (or
actually, one would repeated twice, but you
know what I mean...):

"Ooo! Ooo!"

Go! Details a'plenty...

In the meantime, let's see--I already plugged
Peter Sanderson's latest a few days ago, so I can skip that. Roger Green? Nah--I link to him every week. Think I'll
pass this time around. (D'oh! Too late!...)
Greg Burgas' links? Well, okay--and who knows? Maybe some week,
I'LL even make the cut on his Sunday round-up
(pardon me--I'm needy, okay people?). But
what could I come up with today that might
be a tad bit out of the ordinary?...

Hey, howabout this--Pete Von Sholly's new
eBay store, the VonShollywood Emporium? Pete's got all sorts of cool stuff for
sale including his entire line of books and
a new Lovecraft print series featuring 20
images from the bizarre fantasy epic, THE
DREAM-QUEST OF UNKNOWN KADATH--which sorta
looks like ol' H.P.'s twisted version of
"The Lord Of The Rings"! Check
it out--and better yet, send a check out
to Pete! And tell 'im Fred sent ya!

Sleestak posts some interesting Steve Ditko studies
of the late Don Adams, done for the old GET
SMART comic (a book which, despite being
a fan of both the show AND the artist, I
somehow missed when it came out and never
managed to get a hold of in all the years
since.). From what I have seem, though, it's
some of Ditko's very best work, rivalling
even his SPIDER-MAN.

Would you believe, almost on a par with his
run on ROM?

Would you be--oh, sorry. Geez, that poor
Don Adams. Never in recent memory has the
passing of a beloved celebrity inspired so
many quips. The New York Post's headline
was "Agent 86ed", Tony Danza took
a few minutes out at the top of his gabfest
to salute the "Get Smart" star,
ending by indicating that Adams had gone
to "the great cone of silence in the
sky", but maybe regular correspondent
Alan Plessinger topped them all when, after
sending me a note sharing his sincere appreciation
of the actor, ended his piece thusly:
If only he'd made it to 86.

Missed it by thatmuch!

To which I can only add, good luck
Barbara
Feldon!!..

September 27th, 2005

In the fall of 1965, on playgrounds all across
America, a multitude of sins could
be magically
covered by uttering one simple phrase:

"Sorry about that, Chief."

When "Get Smart" hit, it hit big--especially
with MY generation. Almost overnight, we
were all impressionists, because I guarantee
you, there wasn't a single twelve year old
boy (and for all I know, girls too) who didn't
attempt to mimic Don Adams distinct delivery
of one of the greatest set-up lines of all
time, "Would you believe?..."

I was certainly amongst those frenzied followers
of "Get Smart" that autumn, forty
years gone now. The spy spoof wasn't overly
sophisticated, true, but there was a lot
of cleverness lurking below that one-joke
premise--and in leads Barbara Feldon and
Don Adams, an awful lot of talent as well.
Making this then, a sad day, as yet another
TV icon of my youth has passed away. Don
Adams has left us after 82 years.

Although he'll always be known to television
viewers as the world's most inept secret
agent, I'll also warmly recall his earlier
role as Byron Glick, the world's most inept
hotel detective, working the same establishment
that boasted Jose Jimenez as their number
one bellboy (and Bing's son, Gary, as their
number two--not to mention "Lost In
Space"s Dr. Smith, Jonathan Harris as
the hotel's manager) on "The Bill Dana
Show", a program I watched every Sunday
evening throughout its one and a half year
run from 1963 until mid-January of 1965.
(Would you believe, MOST Sunday evenings?
Once every equinox?...)

Ahem. Well, I watched his last program as
well, the 1995 Fox revival of "Get Smart"
that, sadly, only lasted seven episodes.
Truthfully, I was more interested in seeing
Andy Dick play his son, Zach Smart, but I'll
admit it was fun watching Adams slip easily
back into his old role like it was a comfortable
pair of pants.

(What I never could accept though, was hearing
Agent 86's voice coming out of Inspector
Gadget's mouth on the animated series of
the same name. Julie was fascinated with
that cartoon for--thankfully--a very brief
period of time when she was very, very young,
and it always seemed WRONG somehow, listening
from the other room...)

Y'know, when Lynn came home today,I asked
if she'd heard--a major TV celebrity had
died. Without missing a beat she replied,
"Would you believe, a minor TV celebrity?..."

No, she didn't mean to belittle the man.
She just couldn't resist. I'm sad to see
Mr. Adams go, but I've got to figure this
has got to be one of the toughest tributes
for journalists of a certain age to write
simply because, while a certain level of
solemnness is inherently called for, how
can one NOT give in to the urge to turn the
whole sorry situation into an excuse to exhume
one's own very best attempt at a "Would
you believe?..." routine?

Sigh. Well, not much more I can say except,
"Sorry about that, Don..."

September 26th, 2005

Not to jump on a trend, but I couldn't help but notice this Henry
Boltinoff gag panel the other day when paging
through my copy of DC Comic's SGT. BILKO
#18 (March-April 1960) (the reason for which
will be become readily apparent in just a
few days).

One of four separate panels found under the
umbrella title of "Khaki Yaks",
the "punchline" here is, "Look--a
sunken bathtub!"

Yeah, I didn't think it was very funny
either...

But it's just more evidence that, back in
the fifties and early sixties, implied male
nudity ran rampant on the funny book racks!
Y'know, I'm kinda surprised Sub-Mariner wasn't
more successful than he was during that period.
Maybe folks just found those ears a bit off-putting...

September 25th, 2005

Around here, Friday night means Peter Sanderson!

Okay, okay, so apparently my life isn't all
that exciting, but still, I usually try to
make it a point to check out what my pal
Peter posts over at the IGN Comics website each Friday shortly after it goes up, and
this past week was no exception. Mr. S's
Comics In Context #103 concerned a wide-ranging survey of current
animated efforts, and included a longish
aside to yours truly, one I intend to answer
in kind in the coming weeks over at MY IGN
column, the not-nearly-as-longish Fred Hembeck Show. But not today, Peter--today I want to talk
about Petey!

Petey--the Adventures of Peter Parker LOOONNG
Before He Became Spider-Man. A series I created entirely on my own for
Marvel Comics back in the eighties (and that
ran intermittently on up through the late-nineties).
Yup, it was ALL me--save for the characters
and situations based on earlier work done
by Stan Lee and Steve Ditko, utilizing an
artistic approach, um, borrowed from DENNIS
THE MENACE cartoonist Al Wiseman, and attempting
to appropriate a story sense inspired by
LITTLE LULU'S John Stanley, with just a dollop
of the sentiment found in Bob Bolling's LITTLE
ARCHIE. But, y'know, otherwise, it was ENTIRELY
my brain-child. Really.

WHY am I now--you should pardon the expression--bringing
up my Petey? Well, the thing is, after reading
Peter's piece, on the way out of the site,
I happened to notice a picture of Peter Porker,
The Spectacular Spider-Ham accompanying one
of their news blurbs, heralding the Ham's
return. Inasmuch as the pig was yet another
character I once worked on (but had absolutely
NO hand in his creation, I assure you), I
found myself just curious enough to investigate
what was surely to be little more that a
puff piece/press release. Which was exactly
what it was, trumpeting a hundred page one-shot
entitled SPIDER-MAN FAMILY. Sure enough, Porker returns in an all-new
tale--alongside several other web-covered
individuals--but the majority of the book
consists of reprints. All it took was a quick
glance down at the cover art provided--there
was no mistaking what I saw! Right there
under Spider Woman's legs was the head of
my Little Petey!! Wow!

Okay, it's only a reprint, but reprints are
most assuredly not the norm for me (unlike
my buddy Terry Austin, who can't even keep
up with the various permutations his legendary
run on the X-MEN has been regurgitated over
the years), so excuse me for being mildly
thrilled! They chose a good one, too--"The
Devil And Mrs. Parker", from 1997's
UNTOLD TALES OF SPIDER-MAN ANNUAL, my next-to-last
outing with the little guy (--to date! Marvel,
let it be a matter of public record: I stand
at the ready to work on my Petey, any time,
any day!!..)

So pardon me, Peter--I'll get to you soon,
promise--but I just had to share this little
nugget of negligible news with my audience.
Folks, if you want to read a fun little story
of the young Peter Parker, I heartily recommend
you pick up a copy of SPIDER-MAN FAMILY when
it hits the stands!

(Or, um, you could just go here. Hey, who could realistically have expected
THESE stories to ever be reprinted, y'know?
Geez, sometimes my Petey surprises even ME!..)

September 24th, 2005

Subtext? What subtext?

(I suppose I SHOULD offer my apologies for,
um, appropriating pal Dorian's trademark phrase, but considering he outed Logan and me, well, I just don't FEEL like it. So there.)

Wilbur? He was a long-running--but little
remembered--Archie imitation published by
the Archie folks themselves. This ad appeared
in a coverless Archie giant comic from the
early fifties, but as all the pertinent publishing
info appeared on that long missing cover,
well, that's about all I can tell you about
THAT, minutia lovers.

Riverdale's young Mr. Andrews certainly may've
been more popular in the long run, but c'mon--it's
painfully obvious WHO'S got the nicer butt,
isn't it? (Even ol' Arch must think so. After
all, he donned a pair of Clark Kent glasses,
assumed the not-altogether clever alias of
"Red", and for what? To sneak a
peek at the wet Wilbur, natch! Betty and
Veronica even adopted brand new identities
just to get in on the tawdry, pre-Code fun!...)

Nice.

Wolvey has more body hair, though. Sigh...

September 23rd, 2005

I just turned in my choices for this week's
Five For Friday list over at Tom Spurgeon's
The Comics Reporter.

1. Al Wiseman's lettering in the old Dennis
The Menace comics, which often effectively
combined seriffed lower case, sans serif
upper case, and red colored display lettering,
all in the same word balloon.

2. Stan Lee's emerging editorial persona,
particularly as displayed in the letters
pages of the Marvel Comics published
from
1961 on up through 1965 (once the Bullpen
Bulletins Page became a regular standardized
feature, a little of the magic vanished,
even though it made perfect sense for
the
firm's small staff to consolidate the
monthly
hype in what was still an entertaining
manner).

3. Ira Schnapp's logo's for DC Comics'
Silver
Age books, as well as his covers and
house
ad lettering--especially those small,
text-only
promos he did for Mort Weisnger to
promote
the editor's Superman Family titles
back
in the early sixties.

4. Russ Cochran's magnificent over-sized,
B&W reproductions of the EC line
in his
series of slip-cased library volumes,
complete
with extensive first-class supplementary
material.

5. Painted covers on early sixties
Gold Key
Comics that were repeated on each issues'
back cover, minus any distracting logos
or
lettering.

Oh, and number six: variant covers,
the more
the merrier!

(Just kidding...)

Go take a look--and add your own favorites
while you're there.

And by the way, I've been meaning to
link
to this for awhile now (I keep forgetting),
but if you haven't already, you really
must
check out this wonderful series of DC Comics romance comics covers Johnny Bacardi posted (not-so) recently.
I was especially taken by the pair
of Nick
Cardy pieces JB included--top-notch!

And here's a great review of the SUPERMAN:
MAN OF TOMORROW ARCHIVES VOLUME 1 from John
Firehammer over at This Is Pop!He does a very nice job explaining the appeal
of those wacky old comics, all the while
simultaneously putting them in their proper
historical context. As I always say, when
it comes to Superman, the Mort the merrier!

(Sorry. I'll go now...)

September 22nd, 2005

First rule of Riverdale Fight Club?

There IS no Riverdale Fight Club!

...because if Big Moose ever finds out about
it, well, it's pretty much all over for THESE
two!!

This week's edition of The Fred Hembeck Show (Episode 28) deals with the man named Xavier--not Professor
Xavier, however, but rather DOCTOR Xavier,
the title character from the classic 1963
film, "X, The Man With The X-Ray Eyes".
More specifically, we examine the comics
adaptation Gold Key issued in conjunction
with the movie's release.

The young lady over to the side? The cover
girl for the X-Ray Spex corporation, of course!

Tom the Dog watches the new TV shows--and the Emmys--so
I don't have to. (Though I DID catch the
debut of "My Name Is Earl" and
found it to be pretty funny. Damn--hooked
on another one...)

Lastly, I finally got around to reading Mark
Evanier's film by film overview of Laurel and Hardy's career, and I enjoyed it immensely. I always check
Mark's blog--who doesn't?--but sometimes it takes me
awhile to get around to some of the extras
on his site. This one in particular was another
fine miss...

September 20th, 2005

So the Yankees have this young outfielder,
his name is Bubba Crosby. He's been up and
down the minors like a yo-yo the past few
seasons, serving as needed. Well, last night
he came up in the bottom of the ninth, it
was a 2-2 tie against the Baltimore Orioles,
right smack in the middle of a heated pennant
race--and BOOM!

HOME RUN! New York wins, and not only does
the crowd go wild, but, mere hours later,
so does the back pages of the city's tabloids!

The Daily News screamed "Hubba Bubba!",
Newsday proclaimed, "Bubbalicious!",
but the winner HAD to be the New York Post!

From this day forward, I'll always think
of the Yankee outfielder as Der Bangle...

(What? You thought maybe this entry concerned
the star of such fine video productions as
"Going Both Ways", "The Balls
of St. Marys", and "The Road To
Ugropia"? Uh uh, sorry--we don't do
those kind of gags here...)

September 19th, 2005

When I first began following the New York
Mets back in 1966, they were one woeful baseball
team. Most of the stars in the National League
played for the other nine teams, and we New
York fans would see 'em when they came to
Shea Stadium, where they'd regularly torment
our so-called Amazins. One such player was
a tall and powerful first baseman who'd been
a fixture with the Pittsburgh Pirates since
the early sixties. His name was Donn Clendenon.

My next door neighbor, John, seemed to take
a particularly sadistic delight in watching
the Bucs slugger come up during a key situation
late in the game, invariably launching one
over the fence to inevitably deal the Mets
yet another loss. Whenever we'd get together
to play a baseball game amongst ourselves,
John would swing lustily--and if he hit it
real good, he'd always gleefully invoke the
name of Clendenon as he raced around the
bases.

But by 1969, the big first baseman was getting
older, so the Pirates let him go in the expansion
draft initiated that year, and he was quickly
picked up by one of the league's two then-new
teams, the Montreal Expos (currently known
as the Washington Nationals).

By mid-season, though, Donn Clendenon had
been dealt to the New York Mets, and many
people--ace pitcher Tom Seaver included--felt
that the acquisition of this seasoned, veteran
power-hitter was the final piece that made
the Miracle of '69 possible, as the Mets
went from being a ninth place team in 1968
to World Champions one short--and truly amazing--year
later. He may have been 34 at the time, but
for once, the Mets had gotten themselves
a bona fide star BEFORE he'd lost his touch,
a dreary situation which had happened so
many times over the previous several years
(and frankly, still happens all too frequently...)

Clendenon's three home runs in that October's
World Series against the heavily favored
Baltimore Orioles were enough to get him
named the Most Valuable Player of that year's
Fall Classic, though he always demurred,
saying that on that team, EVERY player was
valuable. I gotta say, for once it was a
joy to be rooting right alongside my pal
John for the guy--and he certainly didn't
disappoint!

Such was the magic of that season that Clendenon
will probably always be remembered primarily
for his part in it, even though he only played
two and a half years total for New York,
finishing up his career as a member of the
St. Louis Cardinals in 1972. Well, while
he may not've had the length of service Seaver,
Cleon Jones, Jerry Koosman, Bud Harrelson,
and several other of the '69 Mets ultimately
racked up, but don't let that fool you--Donn
Clendenon was an integral part of the Miracle
Mets.

Well, that was a long time ago, wasn't it?
If you haven't heard--or figured out yet
exactly where this is going--I'm sorry to
report that the big first baseman (who went
on to earn a degree in law after his baseball
career ended) passed away the other day at
age 70. I first heard the unfortunate news
during the Mets telecast on Sunday, as Hall
of Famer Seaver--now a broadcaster--offered
up a heartfelt if low-key tribute to his
erstwhile comrade during the course of the
game.

The 1969 Mets, as a team, achieved something
truly immortal. The individual players, however--Tommy
Agee, Cal Koonce, Tug McGraw, and now Donn
Clendenon--have sadly proven to be all too
mortal.

Rest easy, big fella.

September 18th, 2005

If you look real, REAL closely at my September
5th posting, you'll find a passing reference
to second-generation crooner, Jack Jones.
Well, that was all the opening regular correspondent
Alan Plessinger needed, as he sent the following
anecdote along for my amusement. I thought
it was pretty funny, and have been saving
it for just the right moment to share with
you all (such as, when I just didn't have
enough time and/or energy to come up with
something original myself in my often quixotic
attempt at maintaining my daily presence
on the web! Thanks, Alan!).

And now, the story...There was a quick mention of Jack Jones in
your blog, so I have a quick show biz story
about him which you may or may not have heard,
with a very small Marx Brothers connection.

He was appearing on the Ed Sullivan
show.
Ed Sullivan was apparently considered
the
most incompetent host on television.
He could
brighten a room by leaving it. During
rehearsal,
he said to Jack Jones, "Your father
used to be Allan Jones, didn't he?"

"He STILL IS Allan Jones!"

"Oh, that's good! That's funny.
We'll
do that during the show. I'll call
you over,
I'll set you up with the straight line,
and
we'll get a big laugh! Big laugh!"

So during the show, Jack Jones does
his song,
and when he's done, Sullivan calls
him over
and says,

"Your father is...still alive, isn't
he?"

Well, not anymore--but then neither is Ed,
so I guess it all evens out, doesn't it?

September 17th, 2005

Huh?...

No, I'm not going to explain this to you--I
just don't have the energy. Let your imagination
run wild--or dig up a copy of either ADVENTURE
COMICS#293 (February 1962), or the first
volume of the LEGION OF SUPER-HEROES ARCHIVES.
Believe me--if you're looking for this in
the ASPCA handbook, you're gonna be way outta
luck!...

Moving on to Super-Images of a more pleasant
sort, I offer you a pair of video links,
helpfully supplied to me by my old pal, Larry Shell.

First, we have a commercial from the fifties
instructing viewers on how they can get themselves
a Superman T-shirt. Maybe even more interesting is this other
ad featuring George (Clark Kent) Reeves,
John (Perry White) Hamilton, and Jack (Jimmy
Olsen) Larson, hanging around the Daily Planet
offices, scarfing up bowl after bowl of that
brand new cereal sensation, Sugar Smacks!

Hey, you don't suppose the Boy of Steel had
maybe a bowl too many himself, and he's all
hopped up on sweets? Hey, it sure wasn't
Gravy Train that made him go all nutty, that's
for sure!...

September 16th, 2005

In lieu of an actually cohesive entry today,
I offer up instead a few random notes about
what's been going on around these parts lately.

Julie began tenth grade last week. She exhibited
actual enthusiasm about returning to school
in the days just before summer vacation ended,
which proves our decision to send her to
the smaller, private school (beginning last
year) to be a good one. Plus, she's learning
more! (She's been assigned "Oedipus"
to read, which she pronounces, "Eddy-puss",
and when she asked if I had ever read it.
I said no, but that I DID read the Hanna
Barbara adaptation, "Snagglepuss"!
She just stared at me blankly, so I quickly
exited, stage left!...)

Yes, I bought the new Paul McCartney CD.
I'm currently absorbing it--never fear, I
expect that a long-winded review will turn
up on site, hopefully within a week. I also
got me a copy of the new Rolling Stones album,
and it proved to be FAR better than I ever
expected it to be! THAT'S about as in-depth
as I'll get about that, but if you're wavering
on purchasing it, consider this an (under
my)"thumbs up".

I've vowed not to watch ANY new TV show this
upcoming season, as I feel I watch too much
regularly on the tube as it is. Already,
though, there's an exception--at the urging
of my daughter. we're going to sample "My
Name Is Earl". Why? Well, not only does
the character as seen on the commercials
share his name with the step-dad of one of
her friends, but they also (allegedly) share
a lot of...other qualities as well! We'll
just have to see HOW close the TV folks unwittingly
came to real life when the sitcom debuts
later this month...

The Mets. Arrrghh. A half game out of the
wild-card race at the end of August, seven
games over .500--and since then, 3 wins,
15 losses! Did I mention "Arrghh"?..,

I saw Beth Holoway Twitty on MSNBC's "Abrams
Report" a couple of days ago, so I guess
things are finally getting back to normal,
at least on the cable news networks. But
as long as Keith Olbermann has an hour each
night, the miserable failure of the government's
response to Hurricane Katrina won't soon
be forgotten. Thank heavens.

But one thing I DON'T understand--the appeal
of this Rita Cosby, who the bigwigs at MSNBC
seem to be treating as their single greatest
resource ever since her show. "Live
and Direct", debuted a month or so back.
Bad voice, inane questions, over-eager (and
often inappropriate) manner ("I'm in
New Orleans--OOooo, look at all that destruction!").
The way she works the phrase "live and
direct" into virtually every other sentence
gets tiresome real, REAL quick.That's something
she must've learned from her last employers.
Fox ("Fair and Balanced") News..

Julie's playing soccer again, after I told
you she wasn't going to. Yeah, there's a
story that goes with that, but another time.
She's also signed up for a weekly portraiture
class at the art institute at whose summer
program she attended for two weeks this past
summer. The instructor she worked with called
up last week, and offered her the spot--and
at half price! I suppose we should be flattered
(we are) as he commended not only her talent,
but Julie's enthusiasm as well. Still, you
gotta wonder if he was just trying to make
his quota. More on this later...

I was out vacuuming the pool Wednesday, and
all of a sudden a parakeet flew down and
landed on the coping stones. Obviously escaped
from some neighbors house, the bird was clearly
accustomed to being around people. He kept
flying off, only to return, so I went inside,
told Lynn, and we both returned to the pool
area with a cage-like apparatus we once salvaged
from an old refrigerator (don't ask...).
after a few minutes, the bird landed again,
and I almost--ALMOST!--caught him! What I
was gonna DO with him if I caught him, I
wasn't sure--go house to house asking, "Excuse
me, are you missing a bird?" seemed
to be the only logical course of action,
but it never came to that, as the bird did
its best to steer clear of me following his
near capture.

I waited for another chance (one that never
came), while Lynn returned to her computer
inside. Finally, I gave up and came in, but
as I did, I casually noticed the wooden parrot
that sits in a clay pot near our window,
a souvenir of a past vacation. It possessed
almost the same color scheme as the loose
parakeet, and was only slightly larger. An
idea suddenly came to me. I grabbed it off
it's perch, began tossing it back and forth
between my two hands as if it were a real
bird trying to escape my careful grasp, and
shouted to Lynn, with convincing immediacy.
"I caught it! I caught the bird!!"

I ran into where she was sitting, and she
spun around in her chair, excited at hearing
my news, and for a split second there, I'm
convinced she actually believed that was
the errant parakeet flapping around between
my palms--and THEN she knew. The look on
her face!

The laughter went on for quite awhile,
lemme
tell ya!

Further evidence that I've read far too many
comic books in my time: driving out onto
the road after dropping Lynn off to pick
up our other car from its annual state inspection,
I routinely looked to my right before pulling
to onto the road, then to my left, only to
be mildly surprised to see a car coming around
the somewhat blind-corner just as I pulled
out onto the side road. My exact words at
this semi-startling turn of events?

"Oooo. Jeepers!"

Of course, had this been a far closer call
than it actually was, I assure you I would've
utilized a phrase more appropriate to an
issue of Vertigo's PREACHER that SUPERMAN'S
PAL, JIMMY OLSEN, that's for @#$% sure!!

As always, when I went into my Best Buy the
other day, I grabbed a copy of the weekly
sales flyer to see what had just come out
that and what the special deals were. I KNEW
I was buying the Macca CD, no question, but
was curious to see what else was available.
I noticed they were offering the new three
CD collection of Genesis hits (the only compilation
to feature both the Peter Gabriel AND Phil
Collins led prog-squads, as the TV ads had
been blaring over the airwaves in the days
previous). Now, I'm not all that big a fan
of Genesis--I have a few solo CDs of each
of the aforementioned gents, including their
respective hits collections, but truth is,
they don't get all that much play--still,
it'd be nice to add the best of Genesis to
my musical library. The list price for the
mini-box set was $39.99, but this week Best
Buy had it on sale for $29.99. I was undecided--did
I REALLY want to hear "The Lamb Lies
Down On Broadway" THAT badly?

Well, when I actually spied a copy of the
set on the rack, my mind was immediately
made up--somebody obviously goofed, and ALL
the copies were marked $19.99!! THIS I couldn't
resist! So I grabbed a copy, and along with
my Sir Paul CD, hastily went up front, hoping
to pay for things before anybody realized
their mistake. Good news--I DID!! But here's
the kicker--later, when I triumphantly told
Lynn of my sales scoop, she threw a bucket
of cold water on things by calmly pointing
out that I didn't necessarily save ten bucks
due to a store error, but instead spent TWENTY
on something I hadn't been planning to buy
in the first place!!

So now, even as I type this, I'm listening
to Genesis, and I'm enjoying it! Why?
BECAUSE
I HAVE TO!!

(Oh NO!! Here comes "Misunderstanding"
again!...)

Lastly, sorry Tom, but I'm Oh For Friday. I've got nothing
suitable to contribute to this week's Five For Friday, but maybe somebody else out there does--
use this link and see, okay gang.

(Oh, and Happy Birthday, Kurt Busiek!)

September 15th, 2005

I'm so embarrassed.

And the worse part is, I DIDN'T EVEN DO ANYTHING!!

You all know me as a staunch--and early--supporter
of that animated icon of the twenty-first
century, Bikini Bottom's most celebrated
citizen, SpongeBob SquarePants. Well, anything
enjoying as much success as the li'l yella
fella has amassed these past few years is
bound to spawn some imitations--blatant or
otherwise--and belatedly as it may seem,
apparently one's FINALLY drifted into view.

The name of SpongeBob's dubious doppelganger?

Coconut Fred.

Who lives on Fruit Salad Island.

Oy.

HOW did I uncover this sorry situation? Not
willingly, I guarantee you that. Earlier
today, I received a call from my pal, Terry
Austin, and for the first several minutes
of our conversation, he kept referring to
me as "Coconut Fred"--and when
he finally realized I had NO idea what the
heck he was talking about (I assumed that
our current heat wave had gotten to him,
and merely chalked his seeming ramblings
up to that), he explained to me that Coconut Fred was a new cartoon show currently being heavily promoted as part
of the WB's upcoming Saturday mornings line-up
(debuting at 8:30 THIS Saturday, September
17th, if you're at all curious--which I'm
not. I know where MY loyalties lie, and these
rip-off artists are not influencing my viewing
habits simply by flattering me with an ill-advised
name check, nosirreeeSpongeBob!...).

Coconut Fred. Sigh--sorta makes me long for
the restrained elegance of a man named Flintstone...

September 14th, 2005

This week, The Fred Hembeck Show, Episode Twenty-Seven, takes a close look at a vintage issue of
ADVENTURES OF THE FLY. Discover the secret
origin of Fly-Girl, the Metal Master's kinky
dominance over firearms, and artist John
Rosenberger's twin specialties! (And no,
wise guy, only ONE is pictured in the panel
above!...)

Peter Sanderson's Comics In Context #101 deals with, ostensibly, classical music
in several classic Warner Brothers cartoons,
but far more important to ME is Peter's opening
page wherein he discusses my recent trip
to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, specifically
my visit to the Matisse exhibition. Who knew
that Julie and I missed, by a mere day, running
into my fellow IGN columnist--and now, fellow
Rupert Murdoch media pawn--in those hallowed
halls where hung the magnificent works of
Henri Matisse?

Yeesh.

But, y'know Peter, I DID think to myself
while I was roaming the Big Apple--only my
second trip to NYC in the last decade, practically,
"Wouldn't it be funny if I bumped into
someone I knew down here?"--and I fully
figured the most likely culprit would be
YOU! So close, and yet...

(By the way, I too have always longed to
make that Ed Meese joke--I guess we're more
alike than you'd think, eh? Except, of course,
that I prefer SpongeBob to any and all cartoon
characters that came before him--even Babalooey!....)

Then there's my pal Roger Green--or should I say, EVERYBODY'S pal, Roger
Green! There's hardly a site on the Comics Weblog Updates roll that doesn't mention Roger, have some
thoughts by him included in their comments
section, or, even more amazingly, is awarding
him some sort of prize or another!?! Nice
job, pal--and when you pause for a moment
and settle in at your OWN site, well, that's
fun for us ALL, too!!

The Flash--tearing into today's headlines?
Yup--the twisted geniuses over at SUPERFRANKENSTEIN have assembled a sterling collection of
vintage Silver Age covers, translating the
current day's news events into terms we comics
aficionado's can truly understand! Great
selection!

Delenda Est Carthago! What does it mean? I don't know exactly,
but when you see it invoked around here,
it can mean only one thing: Greg Burgas has
been assembling links again! And me? I'm
just linking on over to HIM! Hey, sometimes,
you just GOTTA take the easy road, y'know?

Gracias, GB! And adios!..

September 13th, 2005

When I was growing up, there was no Bruce
Lee, no "Kung Fu", no martial arts
craze. No, back in 1963, if a ten year wanted
to learn about the fighting secrets of the
mysterious East, he really only had one place
to turn--

Comic books.

Like, for instance, via this one page instructional
strip that could be found in the 26th issue
of ADVENTURES OF THE FLY (July 1963, art
by John Rosenberger)...

Or, if you preferred to brush up on ANOTHER
facet of the martial arts, you might want
to take a closer look at one of several feature
pages found in the double-sized, vintage
reprint Harvey Comics collection, BLACK CAT
#64 (January 1963, art by Lee Elias)...

God's honest truth--once, not long after
buying it, I took my copy of BLACK CAT the
half-mile down the road to the sand pit behind
the local elementary school, accompanied
by a buddy, all with the intention of practicing
the above moves (as well as a buncha others
found in the same issue). After spending
several minutes discovering that these throws
weren't nearly as easy as they looked on
the printed page, we gave up and walked on
home. Just as well--black leather, it turns
out, really chafes the crotch (though I DID
like the way those boots looked on me...)!

Okay, so I made up that last part, but the
rest is true. And just think about it: if
YOU wanted to learn some fancy fighting skills,
WHO'RE you gonna listen to? A woeful third
string super-hero called the Black Hood whose
most obvious attribute is that he, um, wears
a black hood, yammering on about fighting
fashion choices in his PJs--or the curvaceous
Cat, making short work of the mug who tried
to mash her? For me, it was no contest--my
copy of THE FLY remained safe at home as
we attempted our little do-it-yourself lesson.

Of course, maybe I was looking in the wrong
place altogether. Maybe the REAL expert advice
lurked inside the unlikely pages of FANTASTIC
FOUR #17 (August 1963, art by Jack Kirby
and Dick Ayers, hard to swallow words by
Stan Lee)...

Who knew?

Who knew Mr. Fantastic was THAT fantastic?
Hey, anybody who can teach Sue Storm
enough
judo to take down Dr. Doom himself
with one
swift blow (albeit an invisible one)
sure
knows his stuff! How'd Marvel EVER
miss out
on the seemingly inevitable Reed Richards/Shang
Chi grudge match, I wonder?

(Black Cat versus Black Hood? No contest--once
those claws sink into that hood, it'd be
all over...)

September 12th, 2005

My little mash note to Hayley Mills a few
days back brought in a few interesting responses
(though none, alas, from Ms. Mills herself...).

Tom (SUPERFRANKENSTEIN) Peyer had this to say...
In case you're not aware of her son
Crispian
Mills, you might want to check out
his mid-90s
retro-60s psychedelic band Kula Shaker.
Their
first album, K, is awfully good--and
it has
fab Dave Gibbons cover art! Russ Manning
and Dave Gibbons--what a family!

Tom kindly provided me with the above scan.
LOOKS like a swell disc, and musically, the
description sounds right up my alley. Hopefully,
there's a nineties update of "Let's
Get Together" lurking on there somewhere...

Steven Thompson also had a story about Hayley,
which, after sharing it with me, he's since
added to his nifty site, BookSteve's Library. Read it at your own peril--warning: illusions
may well be shattered!

(On a happier note, check out this mid-sixties flier DC used to send out to folks who wrote into their letter columns.
I had one of these, too--though I'd have
to look a week to find it, so be thankful
Steve posted his. Take a few minutes to read
it, and you'll soon realize something's fishy--it
was very obviously written by Mort Weisinger,
and he VERY obviously has absolutely NO interest
whatsoever in promoting ANYTHING besides
his line of Superman Family comics! I mean,
in the FAQ section, he very helpfully lists
the entire roster of the Legion Of SUBSTITUTE
Heroes--but there's nary a mention of the
JLA to be found ANYWHERE!! Ah, that Mort--what
a guy!...)

September 11th, 2005

Took a trip in the Way-back machine the other
night. Wound on the evening of August 29th,
1969, watching "The Dick Cavett Show",
the day after the world famous Woodstock
Music Festival. Guests Jefferson Airplane , Stephen Stills, and David Crosby had performed at the legendary event only
hours before going on the Cavett show--and
the evening's other guest, Joni Mitchell, would've as well, had her manager allowed
her to. He felt the Cavett gig was too important
to miss, so he kept his client safely in
New York City while all her colleagues--and
several of her lovers, past, present and
future--had all the history-making fun. But,
I guess you gotta say, ultimately, her career
didn't suffer much...

Yeah, folks, it's the new-fangled magic of
the DVD, providing us with a special three
disc collection of old Cavett episodes featuring
some of the biggest names in music--"Rock Icons" they call 'em. And unlike those previously
released "Ed Sullivan Show" compilations,
these are complete programs. That should
prove especially interesting later when I
get to the episode featuring Janis Joplin,
Raquel Welch, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and
Chet Huntley, but this particular show was
all music.

It was also one a pair included that was
broadcast during prime-time, when the host
had a three times a week (non-consecutive
days) hour long show, commencing at ten PM,
and thus, one of two I clearly recall watching
in my parents living room (11:30 to 1 AM
was just too late on school nights, the traditional
timeslot Cavett soon found himself in), all
by my lonesome. (Mom was watching something
else in the other room, and dad was sleeping,
so I couldn't play the TV very loud--which,
in the case of this particular show, was
a doggone rotten shame. But, now, finally,
I had me the chance to put on the headphones,
and crank it way, way up!! Groovy, man, just
plain groovy...)

It's quite the time capsule, lemme tell ya.
The Airplane perform three numbers--or four,
if you consider the fact that, after they
receive the audience's applause for the show's
closing number, "Somebody To Love",
they immediately launch right into an extended
jam, one that forces the host to mime his
goodbyes, as it continues relentlessly throughout
the commercials and end credits alike. Joni
Mitchell performs four numbers--one with
a guitar, two at the piano, and one just
plain acapella. Stephen Stills pulls out
his guitar for a short number, and Crosby?
Well, his only musical contribution is to
add some backing vocals to the Airplane's
finale, but worry not--if you're a big fan
of David's, you'll get plenty of him during
the group interview sequence. Puh-lenty.

Sitting in circle on a specially prepared--and
pop art garish--set, Cavett attempts to question
the nine musicians gathered around him. Naturally,
the always provocative--and photogenic--Grace
Slick is close by, ready to answer any of
his queries. But David? He's not just ready,
he's EAGER! An unofficial tally finds Crosby
hogging about seventy percent of the chat
segment, Slick about twenty, Mitchell five,
two per cent for Stills and the Airplane's
Paul Kantner each, and maybe--maybe--a measly
one percent left for an unidentified Airplane
member, who mumbled a few words while his
back was to the camera. But if you wanted
to know exactly what was wrong with the world,
David Crosby was more than happy to expound
on the evils of air pollution--even if he
did implicate several of Cavett's sponsors
in the process! I've always enjoyed the music
of Crosby, Stills, and Nash, but I've likewise
always found Crosby more than a little hard
to take whenever whatever's coming out of
his mouth isn't of a musical nature. This
is no exception. But he sure LOOKS better
than most folks probably remember, myself
included...

Y'know, I've never been all that big a fan
of Joni Mitchell--I've certainly long realized
she has considerable talent, but she's still
somehow never appealed to me overmuch. Well,
while I'm not about to become an over-night
convert four decades after the fact, her
performance at the piano of a tune called
"For Free"--one I know I've heard
many times over the airwaves in years past,
but one whose words I never actually listened
to very closely--was probably the single
most moving musical segment of the night.
A lovely, haunting melody, beautifully sung,
with lyrics--concerning and comparing a street
musician's lot to that of a successful pop
singer--that left a lump in this ol' throat.
I may not've been overly affected by her
other three numbers, but THIS is one I'm
gonna have to track down...

But the real stars of the show were the Jefferson
Airplane! Their legend and stature have sadly
diminished over the years, but at their peak--as
they were here--the Airplane were as good,
as important, and as innovative a band as
rock had to offer. I've always loved the
way they had three vocalists, often all singing
at the same time--and not always the same
tune! (They had four singers, actually, but
master guitarist Jorma Kaukonen generally
warbled his own numbers solo...) The way
Grace Slick and Marty Balin's deceptively
similar tones played off each other, scatting
away madly in counterpoint, while the white-bread
vocals of Paul Kantner somehow anchored his
accompanists more explosive tendencies, all
while the unmistakable bass playing of Jack
Casady and the pickings of the aforementioned
Jorma rumbled away underneath, sure made
for some great music!! And the songs were,
in their own way, just crazy, too: the show
opens (after a tepid monolog from the host)
with the group blazing through "We Can
Be Together" and "Volunteers"
from their still, at that point, unissued
RCA album, "Volunteers". The problem?
Well, the folks at the record company were
a mite skittish about a specific line from
"We Can Be Together", one that
went, "up against the wall, mother,
and please pass me the Schmuckers"--or
SOMETHING like that.

Nowadays, such sentiments are almost de riguer
in an effort to capture a jaded public's
ever dwindling attention, but back in 1969,
this was big stuff. And even bigger was the
fact that somehow, someway, the very line
that was giving the RCA sales force a collective
nightmare, snuck by a battery of ABC prime
time censors, piped out across the airwaves
to an unsuspecting nation--and somehow, way
back when, I missed it, too!! Well, I TOLD
you I had to keep the volume down, didn't
I?...

Jefferson Airplane could be plenty ragged--Balin
was the only vocalist in the ensemble who
could regularly be counted upon to hit all
the notes assigned him--but they were somehow
more exciting because of it! When they got
things cooking, they were just sizzling!.
Most of their later work. post-"Volunteers",
is generally negligible, true, but for a
time, they were an elite act, and the Cavett
show happily captures them during this rarefied--if
all too brief--period.

A few words about the host. At the time,
Dick Cavett was easily the hippest fellow
on TV--which is probably more an indictment
of the era's network television than it is
a ringing endorsement of the man. To be fair,
he was much better with literary, political,
and show biz figures than he was with these
oft-times befuddling new rock artists--but
he was just about the only one on the tube
seeking them out for anything more than a
quick run through of their latest hit. Still,
I often find his manner cloying, and it's
sometimes difficult to watch his exchanges
with these ill-trained (in standard show
biz procedure, at least) guests. Y'know,
I don't think I could survive an hour of
Dick Cavett and David Crosby pontificating,
but luckily, I didn't have to--the music
is the chief attraction on these discs, after
all. Based on this first show--only about
a third of disc one, please understand--I'm
already convinced this was a worthy purchase.

I'll try and get back to you again soon,
and report in on how the Sly Stone/Debbie
Reynolds couch chat pairing went, okay?...

One last note: today, as you know doubt know,
is the fourth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks.
I considered writing up my own recollections
of that day, and how I came to learn the
horrible news. But it's an amazingly trivial
story--maybe I'll tell it sometime, but not
this year. Instead, I thought I'd share the
above with you, as you'll surely be getting
enough reminders as it is. So, while I didn't
want to dwell on it, I certainly didn't want
to forget it, either.

Jimmy Olsen in drag, a rather outre
situation
for the time that occurred with suspicious
regularity during the Mort Weisinger
era.

J.Jonah Jameson, mainly during the
Ditko
days, and specifically in Amazing Spider-Man#25,
the one in which the Daily Bugle publisher
commandeers a robot to attack his long-time
nemesis, the funniest--and, for what
it's
worth, my single favorite standard
sized--Marvel
Comic of all time.

Mr. McOnion, the beleaguered next door neighbor
of Sluggo, a man who seemingly spent every
spring figuring out just how to ship the
hairless--and penniless--orphan off to summer
camp with his friend Nancy, during an all
too short spell back in the late fifties,
early sixties when Ernie Bushmiller's crew
found themselves in the capable laugh inducing
hands of the great John Stanley.

Henry Mitchell, whose exasperated reactions
to the antics of son Dennis were always
the
funniest things to be found in the
old Fred
Toole/Al Wiseman comics.

Buddy Bradley, by Peter Bagge--ALWAYS
hilarious.

..and that's it. Go over and take a look
at everyone else's list, though--there's
some good choices included (as well as, frankly,
a whole lotta names I don't even recognize!
I ain't nearly as hip as I usta be, no doubt
about it...)

This was a bit of a tough one, mainly due
to the word "always". As you can
see from my answers, I loaded 'em down with
qualifications. Look, it's very difficult
to think of a character that ALWAYS makes
me laugh. I probably should've cited Tubby
(as participant Jeet Heer did), but outside
of him, there's no sure guaranteed laugh-getter.
There ARE times when, for instance, Archie
or Jughead are absolutely hilarious, but
it all depends on who's writing and drawing
the stories, y'know, not the intrinsic appeal
of the characters (I chose to limit my selections
to comic books only, with no animated cartoons
or newspaper strip characters--save for their
specifically produced comic book doppelgangers).

Television, on the other hand, is much more
likely to produce characters who can elicit
a smile merely by showing up. Fact is, I
made up such a list several months ago, and
the curious amongst you can get on over to
it by going here, November 29th entry...

Lastly, those of you looking for "Fred
Sez" on the Comics Weblog Update roll
call haven't seen me listed there for a few
days. I'm having some of what seems to have
become a periodic problem with my pinging.
If you understand the lingo, swell--if not,
don't bother to ask. Doesn't really matter.
It'll get fixed, but even if it doesn't,
dig--at this point, I haven't missed posting
something every single day since the end
of last October, and given that track record,
there's very little chance I won't be here
tomorrow. So whether you see me on the Update
list or not, come on by and check--I'll be
here! Promise.

(When I finally DO make it to a full year
without missing a beat, I think I'm just
gonna take a off an entire week--and then
promise myself NEVER to do anything quite
so insane again! Either that, or get a running
start on a SECOND year...)

September 9th, 2005

Sometimes I stumble across long-forgotten
treasures in my tireless effort to entertain
you, the teeming multitudes out there in
Internet-land. Case in point--when I pulled
off the shelves my two boxes of rarely referenced
Disney-related comics (filled mostly with
the Gladstone books of the eighties and nineties)
the other night to get at my copy of HUEY,
DEWEY, AND LOUIE BACK TO SCHOOL for the most
recent episode of The Fred Hembeck Show, I came upon a scant half-dozen four-color
adaptations of several of Walt's live action
productions, all from the late fifties and
early sixties. Comics versions of beloved
old flicks like "The Absent Minded Professor",
"Shaggy Dog", "Toby Tyler",
"20,000 Thousand Leagues Under The Sea"--and
then there was THIS one.

A movie I never saw, a movie I had a pretty
good notion I wasn't going to see when I
initially picked this comic up off the newsstands
back in 1963, but it's still the issue of
that batch that first catches my eye.

Anybody want to guess WHY?...

Uh huh--I had an enormous crush on Hayley
Mills. ENORMOUS. EE--NORR--MOUS. And, y'know, I guess I haven't entirely
gotten over it, even now...

It all started back in 1961. I was eight
years old. The girl next door, Alice, was
nine. I used to play a lot with her younger
brother, John. One day, she invited me to
go a movie. I suppose it was kind of a date,
but I didn't really think of it that way--she
was just the sister of my pal next door,
after all--even though it later (much later)
occurred to me that she might well've thought
of it that way.

Anyway, we went to see "The Parent Trap".

WHAM!--I'd suddenly gotten myself a double
dose of a fifteen year old girl named Hayley
Mills, and I was never the same! She was
sweet, she was feisty, she was funny, she
was refined, she was the girl next door (well,
no actually, she wasn't--I was WITH the girl
next door, wasn't I? But through no fault
of her own, poor Alice just couldn't measure
up to the teen goddess up there on that silver
screen...). My gosh, Hayley Mills was just
the cutest thing this eight year old boy
had ever seen! And while undeniably attractive,
she still possessed an essentially down to
earth quality that made her seem accessible,
even to a shmoe like me, as deluded as that
must sound now. Before the Beatles introduced
me to rock and roll proper, the first 45
I ever bought, after receiving a cheap record
player for my tenth birthday, was Hayley
singing the immortal "Let's Get Together"
("...yeah yeah yeah...") from that
self-same movie.

So when I saw that lovely shot of the now
seventeen year old Hayley Mills on the cover
of the SUMMER MAGIC comics adaptation, beckoning
at me from the newsstand, how could ten-year
old Fred possibly resist plunking down his
twelve pennies?

And hey, comics fans--a bonus! The interior
art was provided by none other than the great
Russ Manning! Lemme me tell ya, he did Ms.
Mills proud...

Yup, the man whose Leeja (in his MAGNUS,
ROBOT FIGHTER series) was one of the most
gorgeous female characters to be found in
ANY early sixties comic, almost did justice
to Hayley Mills radiant beauty. Almost.

Y'know, I'd kinda forgotten all this until
I almost accidentally came across this comic.
My interest again peaked, I naturally Googled
Hayley. I came up with all sorts of stuff,
but this site was my favorite.

Funny thing, though--for all my so-called
devotion to the actress, turns out I've seen
very little of her work. I THINK I went to
see "In Search Of the Castaways"
(1962), but that was about it. And whatever
else I HAVE seen has come in recent years.
Apparently, on the rare occasions I went
to the movies as a kid, taking my buddies
off to a Hayley Mills flick just WASN'T high
on the approved list--and I don't think any
other girls wanted to watch me moon over
the delightful British thespian, so that
avenue was out as well. No, it would only
be years later that I'd see a fully grown--but
still lovely--Hayley Mills in the adult sequel
to "The Parent Trap" (1986), a
Disney telefilm, as well as her appearance
on a memorable episode of Steven Spielberg's
"Amazing Stories" TV series a year
earlier. Even more recently, when daughter
Julie was around eight or nine, we went through
a spell of taping and watching a flurry of
overnight classics on the Disney Channel,
including "That Darn Cat" (1965),
which was fun, and the much cited "Pollyanna"
(1960) which was actually pretty slow moving,
and didn't quite capture my girlie's imagination.
I'm glad I finally saw it, sure, but ultimately,
I think "The Parent Trap" will
prove to be the actress's most lasting legacy.
(I really should try to catch the non-Disney
"The Family Way" (1966), though,
if only for the Paul McCartney score) (Okay,
okay--and for her brief (and undoubtedly
tasteful) nude scenes, too! So sue me--she
WAS twenty years old by then. y'know...)

Hayley Mills is fifty-nine now, and she still
has an unmistakable elegance about her. Still,
I confess that it was an eerie experience
scanning through this hefty--and chronologically
arranged--photo gallery, watching her progress from the pre-pubescent
that originally captured a small but significant
portion of my heart, right on up, inevitably,
to the woman she is today, still smiling,
still attractive, but clearly showing the
subtle ravages of age. True, the public often
witnesses many long-lived celebrities age
right before their eyes, but it's especially
startling when the person in question had
their most iconic success during their early
youth. Hayley Mills has had a long and fruitful
career, as you'll see from the progression
of images on site, but mostly, we best remember
the young Hayley, so it's a bit of a shock
to watch as she rapidly ages right before
our eyes.

No, she's not the girl on the cover of Gold
Key's SUMMER MAGIC anymore--but then again,
I'm not the eight-year old sitting in the
dark watching "The Parent Trap"
anymore either, am I? But sometimes, unexpectedly,
something comes along and triggers some deeply
buried memories, bringing 'em right on up
to the surface. Something as simple as a
seemingly insignificant and long ignored
old comic book.

And if I sometimes wonder why I hang onto
all this stuff, well, I think now I've gotten
myself a pretty convincing answer.

(Besides, did I mention it was drawn by Russ
Manning? Huh, did I? Woohoo--good stuff,
fellow fanboys, good stuff!...)

September 8th, 2005

A few more comments about the recent Jerry
Lewis MDA Telethon...

Actually, a couple of the things that struck
me didn't even occur on the national telecast,
but during the local potion of the show.
You know how that works: Jerry turns over
a quarter of each hour to folks trying to
drum up donations in local markets. Here,
the NYC affiliate is WWOR, and following
Jerry's finale, "You'll Never Walk Alone"
(after which he gets up from his stool, is
accompanied by family and friends, and walks
off the stage--unintentional irony is always
fun, isn't it?...), they not only fill out
the last fifteen minutes until six o'clock,
they go an entire extra additional hour,
until finally calling it quits at seven.
This affords New Yorkers not only the chance
to rake in some more contributions, but also
to have more flexibility in presenting entertainment
in the show's waning minutes. Like the other
night, when a full-blown--if oddly ersatz--rock
and roll revival broke out...

For years now, the host of the NYC portion
has been singer Tony Orlando, with the local
sports team of Russ Salzburg and Monica Pelligrini
standing in nicely for the absent Dawn. If
anything, Tony tends to outdo even the master,
Jerry Lewis himself, in the category of schmaltzy
introductions. So, I wasn't all that surprised
by his unbridled enthusiasm when he presented
the audience with what was essentially the
last act of the evening: Joey Dee and The
Starlighters.

Yeah, that's right--the guy who sang "Peppermint
Twist" way. way back in 1961.

Joey appears to be in pretty good shape,
even if does look far more like a wizened
old gent than a dance-crazed teen these days.
He still had those twist moves of his down
pretty darn good when he sang his signature
number, but it was when he turned things
over to the pair of Starlighters flanking
him that things got REALLY interesting...

(See that photo above? I nicked it from this website, which covered a gig these same three crooners
performed at only a few short months earlier.
I suggest you take a look over there for
further information--but not, of course,
yet, as I'm certain you're ALL still hanging
on my every, ahem, word. Anyway, that's Joey
in the middle. As for the OTHER fellows...)

Next up was Booby Valli. That's right--I
said BOBBY Valli! Who even knew there WAS
a Bobby Valli? (He's the one in the white
suit.) The younger brother of the legendary
Four Season's vocalist took the spotlight
to offer up his versions of two of older
brother Frankie's most famous occular oriented
solo hits, "My Eyes Adored You"
and "Can't Take My Eyes Off You".
Truth is, he has a pretty good voice, but
it sounds neither as high pitched nor as
distinctive as that of his elder sibling's.
Perhaps he didn't receive enough wedgies
as a child?...

And then it was time for original Starlighter--and
another brother to the stars--David Brigati,
to warble a few tunes made famous by a close
relation of his. Okay, maybe bro Eddie Brigati
isn't exactly a household name, but anybody
who listened to the radio during the sixties
would've immediately recognized the medley
of hits that followed: "Good Lovin'",
"I've Been Lonely Too Long", "Groovin"",
"It's A Beautiful Morning", and
"How Can I Be Sure". No, it WASN'T
The Rascals (and certainly not the YOUNG
ones...), but it was amazingly close. The
audience was rocking hard, lemme tell ya!

Tony O joined the group for a dynamic version
of the Isley Brothers classic, "Shout"--well,
at least as dynamic as could be expected
from four white guys who are card carrying
AARP members, anyway! The whole thing ran
close to a half hour, and y'know, three days
later, I'm still reeling! Mainly, there's
one thing I just haven't gotten over:

There's a BOBBY Valli?

The other thing that I wanted to mention
is what has now turned into a full-blown
NY tradition. Every year, sometime during
the first cut-away to the Big Apple portion
of the show, sportscaster Russ Salzburg--whose
accent makes the Boy Commando's Brooklyn
sound like Hugh Grant--inevitably ambles
over to that portion of the stage where volunteers
are busily answering phones, taking pledges.
And every year for as long as I can remember,
Mrs. Joan Hodges has been there, manning
the phones. And every year, Russ bemoans
the fact that, once again, her late husband,
legendary Brooklyn Dodger first baseman and
manager of the 1969 Miracle Mets, Gil Hodges,
has been unfairly denied induction into the
Baseball Hall of Fame.

Best I can tell, his stats make a pretty
good case for his admittance into Cooperstown,
but one would think the job he did taking
the lowly Mets from the depths of the National
League to a World's Championship in two short
years would be enough to put him over the
top! Unfortunately, he died of a sudden heart
attack during spring training way back in
1972, so Mrs. Hodges has been a widow for
a long, long time now. Every year, she takes
calls for MDA, and every year she listens
to Salzburg's well-meaning--but, by now,
probably depressing--call for Gil's entrance
into the Hall. The woman's not getting any
younger, and her hubby has gotten tantalizingly
close several times during recent vote tallies,
so I find myself just cringing when Russ
brings the topic up yet once again. The year
the sportswriters finally see fit to add
Hodges to the august institution, well, that'll
be one year I'll watch the NY portion of
the telethon with true glee. if only because
I know then Salzburg'll finally have to stop
with his inadvertent torture of the poor
woman!

And who knows? Maybe if I'm really, REALLY
lucky, I'll get to hear Lizzie Gore sing
"It's My Party"--and I won't cry,
even if I want to, just because it ISN'T
really her song?....

One of the best Superman stories ever
appeared
in the pages of HITMAN! Honest! This
lavishly
illustrated entry over at Dave's Long Box saves me the trouble of explaining this
seemingly contradictory statement to
the
uniformed, as I pretty much agree with
Dave's
sentiments in toto (and your little
dog,
Krypto, too!...)

Buddy Roger Green posts a drawing that looks like something I might've done
as a quick sketch a couple of decades back,
only now it appears to be being used as a
mascot of sorts for some small internet company--and
I have NO memory of doing the illo! Rog even
has me doubting that I did--but c'mon, who
ELSE draws such lousy feet?...

Roger also writes a well-reasoned piece on Hurricane Katrina and the government's
response (or was that, non-response?...).

Tip-top cartoonist Scott Saavedra is
offering
some of his fine funnybooks to those
folks
who donate to the relief effort. Here are the details.

Bob over at Four Realities uses the cover of an old issue of ACTION
COMICS to offer some trenchant--and
sadly,
all too true--social commentary.

And finally, regarding the whole sorry situation
down there on the Gulf Coast, I haven't heard
anybody crystallize my own feelings and put
them into words much better than MSNBC's
Keith Olbermann did on "Countdown"
the other night. Please, if you haven't already,
read the transcript--or if you prefer, watch the video, as Olbermann's one of those broadcaster's
whose delivery truly helps bring home the
meaning of his words in a way that merely
reading them wouldn't.

(Mark Evanier--also apparently a big fan of "The
Good Guys"--linked to this shortly after
it aired, but I felt it was important enough
to second his emotion. Incidentally, I'd
just like to note that, regarding this latest
crisis, Mark wrote one of those unforgettable
lines that just sticks with you. About all
the taxes we've paid at the behest of our
leaders after 9/11 on their insistence that
it was what absolutely necessary to keep
us safe--and then, in light of how things
were handled after the first really big disaster
DID occur, he said...
You get the feeling we spent $30 billion
just to have some rude people make
us take
our shoes off at the airport?

Yeah, I do--Mark, and it's a real sinking
feeling, lemme tell ya...)

September 6th, 2005

Maynard G. Krebs was one of my all-time favorite
TV characters and was always the main reason
to watch "Dobie Gillis" each week..

But the real forgotten treasure on the late
Bob Denver's resume was Rufus Butterworth.

Teamed with Herb Edelman's Bert Gramus, Rufus
was one of "The Good Guys", the
main protagonists (along with Bert's wife,
Claudia, played by Joyce Van Patten) on the
CBS sitcom of the same name, an undervalued
little show that ran from the fall of 1968
on through the middle of its second season,
when it was unfortunately cancelled in January
of 1970. Rufus, y'see, drove a cab, Bert
and his wife ran a diner, and the two childhood
friends were forever embarking on one ill-fated
money-making scheme after another. Hilarity,
if memory serves, invariably ensued...

Truth is, I LOVED that show. It may not have
been nearly as wonderful as I remember it,
but it at least made a modicum of sense while
providing yocks (unlike that island-based
show). It was broadcast during my late teens,
a period in my life when I was watching very
little TV. Still, it was one of the few programs
I made a point of catching regularly back
in those halcyon--and pre-VCR--years of '68
and '69. The long-standing affection I'd
developed for the actor because of his riotous
Maynard characterization was finally--after
enduring the nonsensical "Gilligan's
Island"--rewarded with "The Good
Guys" (I also became a huge fan of Herb
Edelman in the process). In an era of high-concept
shows, it was relatively low, but in its
own quiet way, a very entertaining one.

Bob Denver had a couple of more shows after
that--a Saturday morning farce with Chuck
McCann, "Far Out Space Nuts" in
1975, and a syndicated sitcom (with Forrest
Tucker) called "Dusty'sTrail" in
1973, but I never quite mustered enough enthusiasm
to watch either one. Outside of checking
in on a few of the latter-day "Gilligan's
Island" reunion movies (yes, friends,
there IS a sucker born every minute..), "The
Good Guys" was pretty much the last
time I followed the antics of Bob Denver.

I heard a funny story from my wife and her
relatives, though. Seems as if the man who
came to prominence epitomizing the Beat generation--at
least, for middle-class sitcom viewers--spent
the late sixties and early seventies living
in the town whose name is generally associated
with the hippie counterculture, Woodstock,
New York. Although none of the Moss's--who've
lived on the outskirts of that famed art
and music colony for years now--ever claimed
a Bob sighting (either Denver OR Dylan),
there WAS the oft repeated incident concerning
the (by now long time former) Mrs. Denver
walking proudly down the streets of town,
her pet leopard being held by nothing more
than a tenuous leash!

So, if you ever wondered, WHO would've been
best suited for Gilligan, Ginger or Mary
Ann, howabout instead C.), the lady with
the zoo animal? Bob and her split up years
ago, though she remained in town long after
he'd left (much to the consternation of many,
I've been told). If only he could've gotten
off that damn island as easily...

Rest in peace, Mr. D...

September 5th, 2005

About a day after the startling devastation
caused by Hurricane Katrina had finally set
in, a thought crept into my mind--this is
surely going to have an affect on the upcoming
Jerry Lewis telethon...

Well, the show's been over for a few hours
now, and I was right--in fact, it changed
the tenor of the whole affair. The only thing
that I couldn't have predicted when the notion
first hit me was just exactly HOW...

Jerry looked much better than he has the
past few years, the medical problems that
made him--as he told Larry King Friday night--
"look like Dom Deluise", apparently
behind him. He's happily off the steroid
medication,, though he was disappointed that,
during the entire period, "I only hit
two home runs!"

His energy level was higher, he was up on
his feet much more often than during recent
telethon's, but most importantly, he realized
what he had to do. Jerry Lewis had to ask
people to contribute to a charity other than
the one he's devoted his entire adult life
to. Clearly, he had no choice. He asked viewers
to split their contributions--or double them,
if at all possible--sending half to MDA,
and half to the Salvation Army. Now, this
easily could've come off sounding like a
desperate ploy to get some money--ANY money--from
an understandably otherwise preoccupied nation,
but to Lewis's credit--and to my mild surprise--it
didn't.

Long-time readers are well aware of my cockeyed
fascination with Jerry. His combination of
raging ego, sheer unpredictably, and sheen
of glossy show-biz phoniness has always made
watching him mesmerizing. He's easy to mock,
and despite all his good work, I've never
quite been able to work up an unqualified
admiration for the man. But now that this
year's telethon is over and done with, that's
EXACTLY how I feel.

Because any seeming insincerity shown by
the host while lavishly introducing the likes
of old cronies Max Alexander, Jack Jones.
Maureen McGovern, Norm Crosby, or the wonderfully
named Bob Zany, was trumped a thousand times
over by the unqualified Bush cronies whose
actions this past week crossed over from
lamentable phoniness into the dangerous realm
of outright lies and purposely stated untruths,
that Jerry Lewis asking his viewers to do
what our government could not (or would not?)
do to alleviate the unnecessarily drawn-out
suffering of the hurricane's victims, THAT
finally made the funnyman a true hero in
my eyes.

Since my brief outburst of political punditry
back around last year's regrettable Presidential
election, I've kept my mouth shut. You really
don't want to hear me railing about current
events, and I understand that. So I've let
the egregiously misguided war in Iraq drag
on, sans comment. But even I have my limits,
and when I see the sort of callous stupidity--initially
accompanied by thoroughly misplaced backslapping,
then quickly replaced by frantic butt-preserving
backpedaling--demonstrated by the officials
charged with the public's safety, to say
I'm monumentally disgusted is a vast understatement.
I didn't think it was possible for me to
GET more disgusted at the current administration,
but surprise, surprise--I can, and I have.

So it seems we need people like Jerry Lewis.
We need people like him beating the drum.
Just pick yourselves a reputable charity
and send them some money. Because I think
it's blatantly obvious by now that the Bush
cartel has no real intention of helping anybody
without being forced to--unless you're a
rich white man, you're on your own for the
foreseeable future, folks (and even then,
I wouldn't trust this bunch...).

I'm wondering--is there ANY way we can get
us one of those recall elections like they
had in California a few years ago? If so,
let me hereby proudly nominate Jerry Lewis
for the highest office in the land.

Heck, the way I'm feeling right about now,
the phrase "President Gary Coleman"
has a seductively strange appeal!...

September 4th, 2005

Last Sunday, Julie and I took a day trip
down to New York City.

This was done at my daughter's urging. During
the past school year, she'd taken the two
hour train ride into the city twice with
her art class, and each time, enjoyed herself
immensely wandering around the Big Apple.
Conversely, I've always shied away from this
world-famous seething metropolis. Aside from
the comics convention I attended with my
pal Rocco back in June (which I STILL haven't
written about, I know, I know...), I hadn't
been into Manhattan proper since the kid
was eight or nine, when we all drove in--Lynn
and Grandma Moss as well--to visit the Museum
of Natural History.

Lynn wasn't going this time, as her bad knee
precludes a lot of walking. Oh, she could've
done it, but the truth is, it would've slowed
our pace down quite a bit. That was okay
with me, but Julie asked her mom--somewhat
gingerly--if this time around, she might
have just dad accompany her on this proposed
jaunt, mainly for reasons of expedience.
Luckily for her, Lynn was fine with the idea,
I wasn't, though--y'see, I have a terrible
sense of direction, and usually need a competent
companion in tow, or be prepared to get hopelessly
lost. Having just turned fifteen the other
day, Julie assured me SHE was capable of
being my safety net. Well, I had my doubts,
but in the end, I couldn't say no to her.
I rarely can...

On the trip down, a very chatty college girl
sat in the seat in front of us, turning around
frequently to ask us one question or another.
Eventually, we learned she was from Texas,
and she'd spent the entire summer in our
area, going door to door selling study guides
to parents. Yeah, she was one of THOSE--all
personable, nice rap, then--KA-CHINK!--zooming
in for the kill. I used to let these people
in my house, but not for years. Fact is,
they rarely come around our area at all,
though one did early in June. At the time,
once I determined what was going on--about
thirty seconds in--I politely said no thanks
and sent the salesgirl swiftly on her way.
The odd thing was, the girl sitting in front
of us did indeed look somewhat familiar to
me (which I decided not to tell her, because
I sure wouldn't want it to be mistaken for
some sorta creepy pick-up line)--and then
SHE she said I looked familiar! Even though
the towns she canvassed didn't include Wappingers
Falls, the list DID cover some of the adjoining
villages, so maybe, just maybe, she crossed
over into my neighborhood without realizing
it, and SHE was in fact the one I gave the
boot to earlier this summer! Certainly an
odd, odd coincidence if it was her. Ultimately,
she seemed like a nice kid--but believe me,
I STILL wasn't buying...

(Another incredulous moment: while killing
some time in a small shop inside GCS waiting
to board our train home, we bumped into the
mother of one of the girls from the soccer
team I coached a few years back! How likely
was THAT? Not likely at all, but hey, it
happened, honest...)

Well, we finally arrived in Grand Central
Station about a half hour before noon. One
ominous note--back in June, Rocco and I had
seen numerous soldiers in camouflage gear
patrolling the cavernous environs, but this
time, they all had their rifles out and at
the ready! Kind of unnerving...

Hungry, we went out on the streets looking
for lunch, and instead found a street fair
spanning at least a dozen blocks. Without
going very far, Julie managed to find herself
a spinach pie, and afterward, we bought a
freshly baked miniature key lime pie, which
we shared. Yum!

Then it was back into the station, and down
into the subways. This is where it always
gets tricky for me, folks, and thus, where
most of my concerns lay.

I'm happy to report my daughter must've had
her bearings passed down from Lynn's side
of the family, as we had absolutely NO problems
the rest of the day. We didn't get lost once!
Sure, I know that probably would've made
for a better story, but hey, cut me some
slack--I can't ALWAYS suffer for my art,
y'know!

Our main destination was The Metropolitan
Museum of Art, with a quick visit to the
adjacent Central Park to follow. Now, here's
something that I myself find sorta hard to
believe: in the at least fifty visits I've
made to Manhattan over the years (I grew
up fifty miles away on Long Island, I hastily
remind all), I'd NEVER been to Central Park
before! In the seventies, when I was a teenager,
it had a pretty bad reputation, so I figured,
why bother? Who needs the grief? Besides,
only a small percentage of those past excursions
could've been considered purely tourist-like.
Over the years, mostly I went into the greatest
city on earth to attend either a comic book
convention, or to drop by the offices of
a comic book company! Yeesh--talk about your
tunnel vision! But Julie was having none
of THAT single-mindedness this time around--can
you blame her?

We only had a comparatively short amount
of time to spend in Central Park after coming
out of the museum, but I was amazed by the
breadth of it. We wandered around, watching
a group of senior citizens gleefully folk
dance in one small area while kids played
baseball across the way. And right between
the two was a small pond, some rocks, and--yup--a
thoughtful looking Julie Hembeck (probably
trying to figure out the best subway route
back to home base).

As for the Museum, well, we spent about three
hours in there, and I guarantee you, it wasn't
nearly long enough. They've got it all, gang--ancient
art, modern art, and even art that doesn't
make a whole lot of sense! What museum would
be complete without some of THAT?

The long hall exhibiting the Greek statuary
was particularly impressive. Classically
sculpted anatomy--you've all seen the pictures.
But always it's the rippled torsos that gets
the big play--what, I wondered, about the
oft-neglected backsides? Well, fret not,
fanny fans--as the picture below so ably
demonstrates, the Greeks sure knew their
butts!

Picassos, Lichtensteins, Warhols--and probably
the best six dollar muffin I'll ever eat
(hopefully)--the Met has 'em all! Julie was
thrilled to find this very familiar Van Gogh
hanging in one of the galleries, and in fact,
insisted that I not only take her picture
admiring it, but to post it here on site
as well. And like I said, it's difficult
for me to deny her, so...

The Museum's current big attraction was an
extensive showing of paintings by the French
painter, Henri Matisse. However, by the time we reached the crowded
second floor gallery housing the bountiful
display, we were both getting a bit punchy.
So, after looking at masterful painting after
masterful painting by this heralded, um,
master, I figured the time had come to try
and amuse my daughter.

"Hey Julie, " I said, "If
this guy had been Lynn's brother, you know
what that would make you?". She said
she didn't know--I don't think she WANTED
to know--but I told her anyway: "The
niece of Matisse!"

Yeah, she rolled her eyes--what teen-ager
wouldn't? But that didn't stop me. While
I should've been appreciating the gorgeous
art, I was instead rattling off a whole series
of these inane gags. Later, whiling away
the time on the train ride home, Julie helped
me perfect them all into a little narrative,
which I will now share with you...

To supplement his earnings as an artist,
the Frenchman once worked as a short-order
cook, but was fired by the restaurant's owner.
Why? As his boss exclaimed,

"Too much grease, Matisse!"

With no regular income coming in, the beleaguered
painter couldn't pay his meager rent, and
was soon kicked out of his apartment. How
come? In the words of his angry landlord,

"You've broken the lease, Matisse!"

Desperate and with no other options open
to him, the artist soon turned to a life
of crime. but nor for long. Eventually, he
found himself surrounded by the authorities,

"This is the police, Matisse--cease!!"

But he didn't, so they shot him dead. At
his funeral, you know what they said, don't
you? Yup--

"Rest in peace, Matisse."

Yeah, I know--the preceding may likely
be
the LAMEST thing ever to see light
on this
website--and given the competition,
that
sure is saying something. Sorry

Anyway, we finished our day with a quick
trip down to Chinatown (another NYC location
I'd never previously explored). Julie had
heard all sorts of raves about the area,
but we were both disappointed to find Canal
Street made up mostly of shop after shop
filled with cheap--and not so cheap--junk.
If it weren't for the obvious heritage of
most of the shop owners, it would've looked
like just about any other street in the big
city, so we soon got back on the subway,
giving up on our plans to eat some authentic
Chinese food for dinner (we DID find a Burger
King with some Chinese characters on its
store front, but that was about it), and
instead wound up chowing down in a TGI Fridays
a block away from Grand Central. The food
was acceptable, even if the prices weren't--fifteen
bucks for my club sandwich (and fries), and
a cool twenty for Julie's fajitas, about
twice the going rate of what we'd pay in
our neck of the woods.

All good things must come to an end, though,
and so we made it home safe and sound round
abouts 9:30, just about twelve hours after
we had initially embarked on our journey.
I'd learned a lot, including gaining a whole
new appreciation for the the work of the
French Fauvist.

After all, you didn't think I came away hating
the Matisse's to pieces, did you? (And uh
huh--that was ONE quip I'd spared Julie,
as there was simply no way she'd get the
reference. Heck, she probably even thought
"El Kabong" was a painting by Picasso...)

September 3rd, 2005

"It was the third of September, that
day I'll always remember"...

I'm not likely to EVER forget that line from
the Temptations classic, "Papa Was A
Rolling Stone", because, besides being
a tremendous piece of music in and of itself,
it coincidentally also notes the very day
we brought our baby girl, Julie, home from
the hospital after an extended stay following
a particularly difficult birth. And whaddaya
think was flickering on the waiting area
TV overhead as we FINALLY signed our newborn
out? The Jerry Lewis Telethon! Yup, that
surely was one day I'll ALWAYS remember!...

In other news, noted Marxist, Gary Sassaman, emailed me the following anecdote relating
to one of our recent discussion topics...
My favorite quote about GUMMO MARX is supposedly
when his kid was asked in school what his
dad did for a living, he said his dad was
GROUCHO Marx. When Gummo asked why he said
that, the kid replied, who knows who Gummo
Marx is?

But wait--there's more! I had identified
Gummo as the most obscure of Marx siblings,
but Alan Plessinger begged to differ...
In my opinion, the most obscure Marx
brother
was not Gummo. There was a sixth Marx
brother,
Manfred Marx, who died in infancy,
and would
have been the oldest. As Groucho once
said,
"I wonder what ever would've become
of Manny Marx?"

Here's the Chronology:

Manfred Marx is born, dies in infancy - 1885-1888,
Chico is born - 1887, Harpo is born - 1888,
Groucho is born - 1890, Gummo is born - 1897,
Zeppo is born - 1901

Wow. Y'know, I really should've known
about
this--I knew about Jessie Garon Presley,
after all--but no, somehow, this was
completely
new information to me. Thanks for that
salient
fact, Alan. And hey, wouldn't it have
eventually
been Manno Marx? Nah--they would've
surely
come up with a better stage name than
THAT!

On the other hand, someone DID think
"Gummo"
was a catchy moniker, didn't they?...

September 2nd, 2005

As regular readers know, sometimes I tell
you little diary-like stories of my life.
Nothing too exciting--I lead a rather mundane
existence, after all--but on occasion it's
fun (well, for ME, at least) to get these
ephemeral anecdotes down for what passes
for posterity here on the internet. Given
that set up, I confess I've been meaning
to tell you a bit about a very rare day trip
I made to New York City recently. I probably
still will--and maybe as soon as tomorrow.

But not today.

Y'see, we almost didn't go on in when we
heard the weather forecast for the day of
our potential jaunt--rain. After weeks on
bone dry weather hereabouts in upstate New
York, we were due rain on the one day our
big trip was planned, and so we hesitated.
In the end, though, we went. Happily, the
rain that did come fell during the several
hours we spent inside, blissfully unaware,
and so we suffered nothing more than a brief
sprinkle shortly before leaving for home.

On Sunday.

When, in retrospect to what was going on
down South at the very same time, our concern
about getting a teensy bit damp now seems
embarrassingly trivial by comparison.

The sheer horror of what's currently transpiring
in Louisiana is gut-wrenching. It brings
to mind that old cliche about the aftermath
of a nuclear attack, that the living will
soon enough envy the dead. Obviously, that's
an overstatement in this case--these survivors
aren't doomed to die of radiation poisoning,
luckily, so they do have a chance to get
out of this mess alive. But only a chance,
not a guarantee. No food, no water, no medicine,
the tremendous heat, and little hope--makes
for a very, very bad combination.

And the media. I'm gonna give them the benefit
of the doubt here and assume they mean well
(well, most of them, anyway), but how long
before some on the scene reporter finds him
or herself part of a life and death struggle
for something so simple as food? I've already
heard one of the correspondents on MSNBC
say she and her crew were told by the authorities
not to eat anything in front of the people
milling around helplessly on the streets,
trapped by the devastation, and without access
to satellite trucks. Knowing this makes watching
the news all the more disturbing, because
unlike other past domestic disasters, where
by now the worst would be over, with rebuilding
underway, the hurricane portion of this story
may very well be only the prologue to the
true horrors to come.

So in light of this, I just couldn't bring
myself to tell you another goofy little story
about myself, particularly one that featured
me stressing out at the mere notion of getting
a little wet.

I'll tell it to you soon. Who knows--we might
all benefit from the mindless diversion?
But when I do, I'm gonna leave out the part
about the weather. Truth is, it's gonna be
an awful long time before I'm gonna feel
comfortable complaining about the rain again...

September 1st, 2005

WHO is Robby Reed?

Ever since Dial B For Blog hit the internet, that's the unspoken question
ALL comics aficionados' have been asking
themselves. Surely it had to be an alias,
based upon the bespeckled lead character
of the endearingly cheesy Silver Age DC Comics
series that the site took its name from,
HOUSE OF MYSTERY's "Dial H For Hero".

But was it?

After all, when Nero Wolfe fans first heard of the celebrated writer
(and cartoonist) Archie Goodwin, how many of THEM found the veracity of
that name to be dubious? And when devotees
of a certain DC Comics western protagonist initially came across the works of cartoonist
(and writer) Batton Lash, how many of THEM had their credulity stretched
as well?

But yes, Virginia--there IS a Batton Lash
(and, sadly, there once WAS an Archie Goodwin),
so why not a Robby Reed as well? After all,
the name "Robert Reed" is a far
more common one than either AG or BL, so
why not?

Um--did I say ROBERT Reed?

Geez, I guess OUR Robby could just as easily
have devoted his blog to "The Brady Bunch", huh? Or maybe the old legal drama preceding
that (coff coff) "classic" sitcom, "The Defenders"? (Say, wasn't there a comic called THE DEFENDERS
too? Hey, THERE'S the kernel of an idea for
a future entry, Robby/Robert/Bob-O, me lad!...)

Of course, regardless of his actual identity,
it was obvious almost from the start that
friend Robby was a man of voluminous knowledge,
great taste, top-notch design sense, expert
technical abilities, and, apparently, a whole
LOTTA time on his hands! Dial B For Blog skews superb in each of those foregoing
categories, and appears on a nearly daily
basis as well. HOW could Robby ever possibly
earn any more of my respect and admiration?

Simple enough--throw ME into the mix!

Yup, Dial B For Blog's 99th gala edition is a refurbished (and slightly edited) colorized
version of an old (real, REAL old, as in
late seventies vintage) Dateline:@#$% strip
I did featuring Cartoon Fred interviewing
(you guessed it) Robby Reed!!

Now, the truth is, it's NOT one of my own
personal favorites, as far as those strips
go (there were, in fact, NO immediate plans
to post it here on site--though I probably
should share the accompanying page of character
caricatures with you sometime soon, as Robby
chose to leave that part out). Shaky lettering,
mediocre art, maybe (just MAYBE) one good
gag--nope, not a favorite. Still, I feel
somehow honored to now be a permanent part
of the grooviness that is...Dial B For Blog!! Thanks, Robby--or whoever the heck you
are! We all await the epochal 100th installment
later tonight!

(Meanwhile, all this name chatter has got
me to thinking--I wonder what ever happened
to one of my favorite late sixties Charlton
Comics scribes, Norm DiPluhm? Now, THERE
was a name to conjure with!...)